Book Clubbed (A Booktown Mystery)

by Lorna Barrett

“What was that all about?” she asked.

  Tricia decided not to admonish her for eavesdropping—not this time, at least. “Nothing much.”

  Pixie gave her a suspicious look. Since Mr. Everett had his back turned to them, Tricia held a finger to her lips to indicate Pixie shouldn’t speak. Then she grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and wrote: Don’t let on. Working on a surprise for Mr. Everett. Will tell you all about it later.

  Pixie nodded and twisted an imaginary key to lock her lips.

  Tricia smiled and nodded. “I need to run an errand. Do you think you can hold down the fort while I’m gone?”

  “Sure thing,” Pixie said. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve been inundated with customers all day.”

  Tricia looked out the window and saw Grace exit the building that not only housed the offices of the Everett Foundation, which Grace had established to distribute the money Mr. Everett had won from a Powerball lottery drawing, but was also where Angelica’s café, Booked for Lunch, resided.

  “I’ll just get my coat and be on my way,” Tricia said.

  “How long will you be gone?” Pixie asked.

  “Not long. I’ll be back before we close for the day.”

  “Okay.”

  As Tricia left the store, she paused at the edge of the sidewalk and looked up. Sure enough, once again Christopher was standing in front of his office window. He waved, but this time Tricia didn’t wave back. He was spying on her.

  She looked both ways before crossing the empty street. The wind was bitter cold, blowing tiny icy snowflakes into Tricia’s eyes. She squinted as she made her way to the Dog-Eared Page. When she opened its door, she was instantly enveloped in its cozy atmosphere. She hung up her coat and rubbed some warmth into her hands as she searched for Grace, who sat at a booth in the back.

  Happy hour wasn’t set to begin for at least another hour, but already there were four people sitting at the old oak bar conversing with the pub’s manager, Michele Fowler. Michele waved a quick hello before she turned her attention back to her patrons.

  Tricia hurried down the length of the pub and sidled into the booth, across from Grace.

  “I’m so glad you could come,” she said. “I took the liberty of ordering cream sherry for the both of us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. But I was surprised to see you’re working on a Sunday.”

  “Just catching up on paperwork while William is at work for you.”

  Tricia nodded. “Now tell me, what are you planning for Mr. Everett’s party?”

  “That’s just it—I haven’t had a chance to do anything as of yet. I only found out this morning that William has never had a birthday party, and that’s a crime for anyone nearing his seventy-eighth year on this earth.”

  “How have you celebrated in the past?”

  “For the past two years we’ve gone out for a quiet dinner. Ideally, I’d love to throw him the biggest, most lavish party Stoneham has ever seen, but I know he’d be embarrassed by the fuss and attention.”

  “Last year Ginny bought cupcakes and we sang ‘Happy Birthday’ during a lag in business, which isn’t hard to do at this time of the year,” Tricia said, picked up her drink, and took a sip. The sherry was sweet and its warmth seemed to immediately spread through her. “How about dinner at the Brookview with just a few close friends?”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Who do you think I should invite?”

  “Ginny and Antonio, Pixie and me. It’s not a lot of people, but we’re all his friends. It would be a low-key celebration, but nice.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. I wish my secretary hadn’t had her appendix out yesterday, otherwise she could have helped with the arrangements.”

  “Poor Linda. I hadn’t heard.”

  “She’ll be off work for a week. I have a temp coming in tomorrow, but it’ll be all she can do just to keep us from going under.”

  “I’d be glad to help any way I can. What would you like me to do?”

  “William sticks to me like glue when we aren’t both working. If I order a special cake from the Patisserie, perhaps you could pick it up and deliver it to the restaurant on Friday.”

  “Of course. Is there anything Pixie and I can give Mr. Everett as a gift?”

  “No gifts,” Grace insisted. “We’re at the point in our lives when we’re shedding material things, not acquiring new ones. A birthday card and a warm hug should suffice.” Grace took another sip of sherry and sobered. “I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject, but is there any news about Betsy Dittmeyer’s death?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “I can’t say I’ll miss her. She was quite abrupt with me the last few times we spoke.”

  “When did you last talk to her?”

  “A few days ago. She contacted me, asking how she could go about setting up a charitable foundation.”

  “Oh?” Tricia prompted. She wasn’t about to tell Grace about Betsy’s financial situation, but this sounded interesting. “Did she explain why?”

  Grace shook her head and took another sip of sherry. “I started to tell her how I’d gone about setting up the Everett Foundation, but she kept interrupting me with questions, and then she wouldn’t let me answer them. She was really quite rude.”

  “Did she tell you what kind of charity she wanted to start?”

  Again Grace shook her head. “We never got into the details. I got the feeling she might want to protect her assets, perhaps through a trust. I tried to explain the difference to her, but she cut me off, quickly said good-bye, and hung up.”

  “How odd.” Tricia drained her glass.

  “Would you care for another?” Grace offered.

  Tricia shook her head. “Thank you, but I’d better get back to the store. We’ll be closing soon.”

  “And I’d better suck on a breath mint. I wouldn’t want William to think I’ve taken to drinking during the day, although I must admit I could get used to slipping in here every afternoon as a treat.”

  “Why don’t the two of you try it now and then?”

  “Oh, William never drinks and drives.”

  “They also serve soft drinks,” Tricia reminded her.

  “So they do,” Grace said with a smile. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

  Tricia stood. “I’ll talk to you soon and we’ll firm up the arrangements.”

  “Thank you. Have a good evening.”

  “You, too.”

  Tricia retrieved her coat and hat from a peg by the front door and left the pub. Once she’d crossed the street, she turned to look up at Christopher’s office window. No light illuminated the gloom, and there was no sign of him lurking about, either. Good.

  Tricia had been stalked once before and wasn’t keen on a repeat performance. What was it Christopher had said the day before? “No matter how much you deny it, it’s not over between us, Tricia. One day we will get back together.”

  A shiver ran down Tricia’s back and it had nothing to do with the temperature.

  NINE

  Only ten minutes had passed since Tricia had returned from her visit to the Dog-Eared Page and in that time the snow had changed from minuscule crystals to thick, heavy flakes. Pixie stood in front of the big display window at Haven’t Got a Clue, eyeing the street with growing concern. “Ya know, I really oughta think about getting some new tires on that old buggy of mine.”

  Tricia looked at her watch. It was 4:55. “Why don’t you leave now? Beat the traffic,” she said, noting there weren’t even any tire tracks on the street. Stoneham in February was so dead someone might as well toss an RIP wreath on the street.

  “You can go, too, Mr. Everett.”

  Neither of her employees needed coaxing. They both hurried to get their coats, hats, and scarves from the pegs at the back of the store, while she retrieved the tea
party leftovers from her refrigerator. “I’ll walk you to your car,” Mr. Everett told Pixie. “I wouldn’t want you to slip on the sidewalk.”

  “Aw, you’re a peach, Mr. E.”

  “Good night, Ms. Miles,” Mr. Everett said.

  “See ya tomorrow,” Pixie called rather cheerfully, having either forgotten, or more likely chosen to forget, their conversation from earlier that day. Tricia turned the lock on the door behind them, turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED, and then pulled down the shades on the big display window, taking note that Christopher’s office window was dark, and his apartment blinds had been drawn. Good.

  It only took a few minutes to make sure the store was shipshape for the next day’s opening. Tricia decided to wait until morning to vacuum, and called to her cat. “Let’s make an early night of it, Miss Marple,” she said, but before she could turn off the lights and head for the back of the store and the stairs leading to her loft apartment, the phone rang. Tricia picked up the receiver. “Ange, is that you?”

  “It sure is. Don’t you just hate this weather? Come on over. I’m making soup for dinner.”

  “How can you even think about food after that tea you put on this afternoon?”

  “It won’t be ready for at least an hour. I could use a little company, and figured you could, too.”

  “We saw each other only an hour or so ago.”

  “Yes, but we didn’t actually get to talk.”

  No, they’d done that before their tea. But then, Tricia had nothing else penciled in on her social calendar.

  “Soup is comfort food,” Angelica continued. “And it’s not all that filling.”

  “Knowing you, that’s not all that’ll be on your table,” Tricia commented.

  “Okay. I’ve got a baguette and a pound of butter. What else would anyone need?”

  “A glass of wine?” Tricia suggested.

  “Bring your own bottle.”

  Tricia smiled. “I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  Miss Marple followed Tricia up to the apartment, where she was promptly fed, watered, and petted. “Be good. I’ll be home in a few hours.”

  Tricia grabbed a bottle of wine and headed back down the stairs. She put on her jacket, but didn’t bother to button it, locked the door, and was surprised how much the snow had accumulated in only the few minutes since Pixie and Mr. Everett had left. There weren’t even any signs of their footsteps on the sidewalk.

  Tricia let herself into the Cookery and stamped the snow from her feet before crossing the store and heading up the stairs to Angelica’s apartment. Once again she paused at the storeroom on the second floor. She tried the door handle, found it still locked, and felt better. Not that a wooden door was much of a barrier against a ghost, and not that she even believed in ghosts . . . still, she hurried up the rest of the steps and let herself into Angelica’s apartment. Once again Sarge was waiting and was apoplectic with joy at her arrival. She made a fuss over him and he raced to the front of the apartment to announce her arrival.

  “Yes, yes, I know she’s here,” Angelica said and laughed, while Sarge jumped up and down as though on an invisible mini trampoline.

  Angelica looked up. “Honestly, wouldn’t life be grand if everyone we knew was that excited to see us?”

  “I have to admit, Miss Marple is a tad more aloof in her greetings, but she’s just as nice to come home to.”

  “Unscrew the cap and pour the wine. It’s been a long day,” Angelica said and turned back to her stove. A pot simmered with tendrils of steam rising from it into the air.

  Tricia took two glasses from the kitchen cabinet, cracked the seal, and poured the wine, handing Angelica a glass. “Don’t we make a pair. We have dinner together more often now than when we were kids.”

  “It was all those after-school piano lessons, dance classes, and everything we were involved in that kept us from the dinner table.”

  “That and the fact that Daddy didn’t get home until after eight most nights.”

  “When you own a business, you stay until the work is done.”

  “You didn’t tonight.”

  “I did,” Angelica insisted. “But since the Cookery hadn’t had a customer in well over an hour, I let Frannie go early and came up here to cook. I always feel better with a wooden spoon in my hand,” she said, and with said wooden spoon stirred the soup then took a tentative taste. “Needs more pepper.” She grabbed the grinder from the top of the stove and gave it several good twists. “What did you think of Karen Johnson?”

  “I like her. I have a feeling she’s going to be good for Stoneham.”

  “Me, too,” Angelica agreed. “And isn’t it nice that so many women are stepping up to make this little village a destination point?”

  “Stoneham, New Hampshire’s home for entrepreneurial women,” Tricia said.

  Angelica tipped her glass in Tricia’s direction. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They did. But then Tricia stared mournfully at the condensation on the side of her wineglass. “I couldn’t help but think about Betsy as I came up the stairs.”

  “She’s been on my mind a lot today, too,” Angelica said. “Her death has put all Chamber business on hold. It’s very inconvenient. I suppose I’ll have to process Karen’s membership myself.”

  “It’s not like Betsy asked to get killed,” Tricia said.

  “I don’t know. She must have really pissed someone off—which apparently wasn’t all that difficult,” Angelica said, tested the soup again, and found it more to her liking.

  “It’s too bad Grant confiscated the Chamber’s computer. It would have been nice to see if Betsy had anything to hide. I don’t suppose she saved her work to an online storage site.”

  “We talked about procuring one, but I don’t think Betsy took it upon herself to do anything without explicit instructions from either Bob or me. But it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have nearly the entire hard drive saved on flash drives—just in case.”

  Tricia’s eyes widened with delight. “Are you kidding?”

  “Why would I?”

  “When did you last back up the files?”

  “About a week ago, thank goodness. The police took the computer. Without those files, I wouldn’t be able to run the Chamber.”

  “I don’t suppose Grant would have taken it if he didn’t think he might find something incriminating.”

  “I suppose,” Angelica said and took a sip of wine.

  “Aren’t you curious to see if there’s something there that could’ve gotten Betsy killed?”

  “I guess,” Angelica admitted.

  “Then what are we waiting for? Boot up your computer and let’s have a look.”

  * * *

  Tricia’s delight soon turned to irritation as she and Angelica slogged through the Chamber’s computer files, taking only a few minutes’ break to eat their soup before starting in on the task once again. Spreadsheets kept track of the Chamber’s income and expenditures, including those members who paid their dues on time and those continually in arrears. Some spreadsheets had multiple worksheets, and they had to check them all, too, which made the task even more labor-intensive.

  Angelica got up from her seat, taking their empty wineglasses with her, with Sarge trailing behind her. Tricia took the opportunity to slip into her seat, and scrolled through the flash drive’s contents. Angelica returned a few minutes later with their refilled glasses and a plate piled high with buttered baguette slices.

  Tricia grabbed one, nibbling on it while manipulating the mouse with her other hand, and tried not to look down at Sarge, whose eyes watched her every move, no doubt hoping she’d drop a piece of bread into his waiting mouth.

  Angelica pointed to a list of names in the documents file. “Click on that one.”

  Tricia
clicked on the document titled MEMBER REPORT. The first page contained a list of the Chamber members’ names in alphabetical order. Each had been bookmarked so that clicking on a name caused the cursor to jump deeper into the document to a corresponding paragraph.

  “Looks like it lists the entire Chamber membership. Click on the link for my name. Let’s see what it says,” Angelica said.

  Tricia clicked on her sister’s name and began to read. “Angelica Miles Samuels Collins Beck Prescott Miles—whew! That’s a mouthful. Born—”

  “Skip that part,” Angelica instructed.

  “—went to school at . . . blah blah blah. Graduated from Dartmouth. Yada yada yada. Joined the Chamber of Commerce over two years ago. Owns the Cookery, Booked for Lunch, and has a share in the Sheer Comfort Inn.”

  “So far no dirt,” Angelica said with relief.

  “Oh, yeah? Listen to this: Ms. Miles is a selfish, opinionated bitch with an interfering nature. She’s been known to break and enter—Hey, this is the exact date we snuck into Grace Harris’s house and found the evidence against that rotten no-good bastard who had her committed to a nursing home.” Tricia looked over at her sister. “Did you ever tell Bob about it?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “And he must have told Betsy—the date and all.”

  “That rat,” Angelica practically growled. “Is there anything else in there?”

  Tricia rolled the little wheel on the mouse, her gaze darting back and forth as she silently read the text. Angelica read along, too.

  “Good lord—it even lists my panty size,” Angelica cried, appalled.

  “Whoa, that’s a low blow,” Tricia agreed. “Let’s see what it says about me.” Tricia scrolled down to reveal her own name.

  Angelica began to read. “It says you’re a—”

  “Goody Two-shoes!” Tricia read.

  “And a nosy one at that,” Angelica said.

  “Nosy, bossy, condescending, smug. Did Betsy consult the thesaurus to write this?” Tricia asked, taking a healthy and rather sloppy sip of wine.

  “No panty size,” Angelica commented dryly, pulling Tricia out of the chair and retaking command of the computer, “but it does say that you’re the village jinx and lists—wow—twelve separate incidents to back it up.”